


Midgardians are not Rowdy

by CateBeLate



Category: MCU, Marvel, Thor - Fandom, comic - Fandom
Genre: Don't worry, Gen, My second party story, Tony Doesn't Drink, but we already knew this, nat lasts longer than the boys tho, only this is the aftermath, thor can outdrink everyone
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-09
Updated: 2019-05-09
Packaged: 2020-02-29 05:22:12
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 958
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18772048
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CateBeLate/pseuds/CateBeLate
Summary: Post-Battle ( maybe ) celebration, because I like writing these. It's meant to be read as a Ragnarok-themed Thor, because he was best Thor.





	Midgardians are not Rowdy

I am, without a doubt, disappointed.

In a realm boasting the universe’s mightiest heroes ( of which I doubt because I have fought many a mighty hero and they could squish these tiny ones ), I am alone. I am a traveler far from my own realm with nary a familiar creature in sight. Familiarity is there, of course, for animals often are descendents from those much larger, pointier, and angrier beings I’ve tussled with.

Those I have surrounded myself with are considered infants - small, soft, loud, and almost always unhappy unless there is food or love involved. And even then, the optimism runs thin.

Stark, who carries the weight of the world on his shoulders, has bettered himself as a mortal through countless ways, yet I can see the recklessness in his martyr mentality. It is admirable, though I know my father would roll his one ( 1 ) eye at the idea. Such brilliance in a short man - I cannot fathom what goes through his mind, zipping around like these agitating scooters in the city. Or whatever they’re called. He didn’t have anything to drink, yet he’s curled up sleeping under the table. I wonder if this is the first time he’s actually gotten proper sleep in a fortnight. I’ll ask him later as he’s complaining over the lack of strength in the coffee brewed. Such stuff is truly disgusting. I don’t understand how Midgardians can drink it willingly.

Rogers, a man from an era existing only in the history books children tote around, sleeps much like my father did - arms crossed over his chest, head tilted back and mouth open to let out an uproarious snore. He’s seated across from me, this symbol of freedom and democracy, and I can only think of his audacity at chiding me for my own attire. Surely he could’ve dimmed his own patriotic colors, even if it is against the wishes of the masses. Romanoff had spoken once of a suit made of the midnight sky - I should ask him about that when he wakes. It took only three glasses from my own reserve to see his decorum falter into that of childish giggling and slurring. He deserved the respite.

Speaking of Natasha, she had stayed awake a lot longer than I would’ve guessed - becoming the last one to succumb to the nectar of the gods. Though her stature is shorter and more lithe than that of Stark’s, a war brews beneath her skin in a way only I can relate to. While I remain this brute, she is pure elegance in lethality. I grow envious at times, catching glimpses of her work, be it physical or otherwise. It was no wonder she’d outwitted my clever brother, and unlike anyone else who has accomplished such a feat, she has remains humble. Somber. Stoic. Absolutely terrifying, and I’ve no doubt she could kill me in my sleep. Me. A demi-god. Dead by a mortal’s hand. I pray to Valhalla she needn’t ever do that.

Banner. Oh, Banner. I don’t really know where he is at the moment, but I hope he’s doing well and is at least not very angry. And doing something with his PhDs ( whatever those are ).

Where even was the archer?

Such thoughts plagued me as I looked towards the bottom of my glass, obviously scowling at the way my hand felt all too big. These people were so small - it was a trait I couldn’t get over. But what they lacked in height, they made up for in ingenuity. Companionship. I am reminded over and over how these Midgardians are far more heroic and selfless than I could ever be.

It’s a thought that hinders me as the rest of the mead is finished, the glass quietly set back upon the tabletop. Though the beverage was something of a social lubricant, it now stifled my muscles, making me want to succumb to the very slumber my patchwork brethren were fully enjoying.

But they deserved such rest, whereas I had yet to achieve such a reward. There was still so much for me to do, and all those things resided outside the doors of this homely ( albeit shady, as the young Peter Parker would’ve said ). It was just a matter of grunting my way through a stretch and trudging onward.

“Hey, buddy-” Ah, the tender. The stout purveyor had been such a good sport throughout the evening’s discourse and uproarious hilarity. Truly, he was not being compensated well enough for his patience in serving those who protected this realm.

“Yes, good sir?” Something spoke to me - telling me to stay at the table despite this small, unnecessary feeling to simply flee, leaving behind my compatriots.

“You gonna pay fer all this mess?” Mess? He must be confused, surely-

Oh.

I finally looked beyond that of my family to find that the Midgardian term “rowdy” was somewhat of an understatement. Why weren’t things here built with the same sturdiness as Asgardian effects? I don’t quite recall that many broken chairs, the cracked glasses, nor the oddly lopsided billiards table. Had that really been our doing?

“Oh, uh …” Words began to fail me, so some kind of entity overtook me, forcing movements through my limbs without my knowing. All I knew was that I needed to get out that door as soon as possible and without any obligation to the situation.

“You can’t just finger-gun your way out of this!” It was the last thing I heard before that heavy door slammed shut, sealing away any anxiety that had been induced by the monetary debt I ( but really, my friends ) owed the tender.

A sigh heaved through me, and relief flooded in.

“That was far too close. I wonder what Volstaag would’ve done …”


End file.
